


Achilles' Heel

by ineswrites



Series: Kryptonite [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Choking, M/M, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:59:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12804225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: “Hail Hydra,” Jack almost whispers.Brock shuts his eyes, focuses on his breathing.Couldn’t Jack wait with this revelation untilafterthey shagged?!





	Achilles' Heel

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ахиллесова пята](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914868) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



Jack sets his empty glass on the table and rests his head on Brock’s stomach. Brock rolls his eyes but lets him, his fingers tangling into the dark curls just above his nape.

Jack’s not the type he usually goes for. He’s tall, taller than him, and lean. But he’s still a piece of young ass and smitten and naïve enough to let Brock put his hands wherever he pleases. When you don’t have what you like, you like what you have. A hole’s a hole, after all.

They haven’t fucked tonight yet, but Shawshank Redemption is on and Brock wants to watch. Jack is always more pliant and eager when Brock gets him drunk first, anyway. Cuddling is not part of the deal, but maybe it’ll make Jack more open to some things later. Some sugar before wormwood. Opposite to what people might say about him, Brock doesn’t actually like it when they cry that it hurts. “Take it,” he always tells them, “fucking take it. I’ll make a man outta you.”

Jack’s well-behaved though. He only cried once. He wasn’t outright sobbing, but there were tears. Maybe Brock toned down the beating and biting a bit after that, but he’s still quite pleased with Jack. When he’s not swinging his arm across Brock’s midsection and nuzzling his chest, at least.

When there’s a commercial break, Jack rests his chin against Brock’s ribs to look up at him.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, his voice low, warm breath sinking through Brock’s cotton t-shirt.

Brock hums. Jack knows Brock prefers it when he doesn’t talk. He hates all the useless babbling, how your day was, did you sleep well, what funny thing your colleague did again. No one fucking cares about this shit. Jack’s naturally quiet though. If he wants to talk, it must be something relevant. So Brock doesn’t say no, but doesn’t say yes, letting Jack decide on his own if whatever he has to say is important enough to risk his annoyance.

“At the Trisk the other day, I… I heard something,” Jack says. “I was passing by Pierce talking, and he whispered… I thought a lot about it, but I’m sure that’s what he said.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Brock snaps. “What did he say, kid?”

He hopes Jack will blame his sudden tension at him talking too much.

“Hail Hydra,” Jack almost whispers.

Brock shuts his eyes, focuses on his breathing.

Couldn’t Jack wait with this revelation until _after_ they shagged?!

It’s Pierce’s fault, anyway. He might run this shit, but he really should know better. It’s not the first time Brock will have to clean his fucking mess. Smug asshole, thinks he’s too smart for anybody to get his number. He’s fucking wrong, but it’s Brock’s fucking night plans that get ruined as a result. How’s that fair?

“He really said that?” He feigns disbelief. “More wine?”

He pushes Jack’s chin off his chest, stands up and walks to the kitchenette, swiping Jack’s glass along the way. Jack sits up on the couch.

“Positive. But it’s impossible. Right?”

Brock takes a bottle of wine out of the fridge and opens the drawer with a corkscrew. Which also happens to be the drawer where he keeps his loaded Glock.

“What do you know about Hydra, Jack?”

He has his back turned to him, so he doesn’t know what Jack’s immediate reaction to that question is.

“I passed History in high school.”

He sounds maybe a bit offended. Brock turns and approaches him from behind with a full glass in hand. Jack’s not looking at him; his eyes are fixed on the screen where a bearded man is trying to convince the audience his body spray is the best.

“It’s an old organization, but they fell. Captain America destroyed them. Right?”

Brock passes the glass and Jack nods his thanks. He takes a long sip and freezes at the sound of a gun being cocked. He doesn’t turn to look. Brock can pinpoint the exact moment when the realization dawns on him because his illuminated by just the light from the screen face goes slack and his eyes grow wide. Brock knows he doesn’t have to say anything. Jack’s smart. He understands what’s going on.

“Wrong,” he whispers, anyway. “They don’t teach you everything in high school.”

That’s when he should pull the trigger, but he’s stalling. Tonight was supposed to be so nice. He didn’t plan on spending it on his knees, washing blood off the carpet.

“You?” Jack asks in a surprisingly steady voice for someone whose minutes are numbered.

“I wish you told me later,” Brock says in a rough voice. “After I was done with your ass.”

“So when do I join?”

Brock almost drops the gun. “What?”

Jack turns his head just enough to have Brock in his peripheral vision. Brock presses the muzzle to his temple, just in case he gets any funny ideas.

“I swore to always follow you.”

“In the field.”

“Was it?”

It’s either an excellent tactical move, or Jack’s fucking delusional about what their relationship here is. And sure, Jack passed tactics, and he did so well. Brock really should shoot him.

But Jack’s also STRIKE. Ninety percent of STRIKE is Hydra. Jack would be recruited anyway if he didn’t die first. That’s just not how this thing usually goes.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Brock asks.

“You’re the only one I trusted this with.”

Brock clicks the safety on and takes the gun away from Jack’s temple with a deep breath. The commercial break ends. Brock should report this fucking shit, pack Jack into his car and drive to Pierce’s, but… it’s late, and he really wants to watch the movie.

He walks around the couch and sits down, leaving the gun on the table just out of Jack’s reach. Their shoulders brush and Jack relaxes at the contact, like they just had a lovers’ squabble, like he didn’t just charm his way out of getting offed. He takes another sip of wine.

“Tell me more,” he asks.

“Can’t,” Brock barks. “How do I know you ain’t a fucking mole?”

Jack puts his glass away and rests his head on Brock’s chest again, his eyes roaming over his face. Brock tries to ignore him.

“I thought you trus—” Jack chokes on his words when Brock wraps his hand around his throat, tight enough to shut him up but not enough to cut out his air supply completely.

“Just because I ain’t holding a gun doesn’t mean I can’t kill you,” he reminds him. “Now watch the fucking movie.”

He keeps choking him for a couple minutes, reveling in the noises Jack makes and the quickened, panicked pulse beneath his fingers. Jack’s hand wraps around his wrist but he doesn’t pull. Poor fool, trusting him not to kill if he behaves. When Brock finally lets go, Jack takes a big gulp of air, but does so quietly, careful not to disturb him.

Brock doesn’t hold back a grin.


End file.
